


abstract. concrete. lost.

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Depression, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Not the focus - Freeform, POV Change, References to Depression, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, idk - Freeform, it's there but, three oneshots in one, three stories in one, warning: not that much naegiri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 22:23:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21363616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: it's alright.yeah right.(we are nothing)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Kirigiri Kyoko/Naegi Makoto (implied)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	abstract. concrete. lost.

“it’s alright.”

the curtains are drawn shut, obscuring the sullen moon and the cool temperature that’s entirely unnatural to jabberwock island. there are likely people wandering around, taking late night strolls and enjoying the exposure to the cold air that defied the relentless, tropical heat. komaeda wonders what everyone else is doing, and he notes that it would be a good day to marry. he’s not quite sure why he thinks of that, because he isn’t planning on getting married. still. 

_ still.  _

the cabin itself is a mess, and normally komaeda would complain if it wasn’t so… so. 

(words escape his mouth) 

there’s post-it notes in a lot of post-it note kinds of places. hinata must be forgetful, or maybe komaeda put them there. komaeda is forgetful, and hinata is not. maybe. the post it notes vary in color, some a hot pink and others a more muted blue. komaeda doesn’t really like blue post it notes, they’re kinda muddled and… and. books are scattered below the window, and komaeda begins to count them before getting distracted and turning to avert his gaze.

he wasn’t really distracted, though. he doesn’t feel enough to possibly switch focus. he feels sick. he feels  **abstract** , not all the way there but still kinda trying. he feels odd. he can’t really focus on the books, but tomorrow he might try to count them. hinata has a lot of books, he knows that, and it occurs to him that he can’t focus on anything but he can obsess over everything.

he feels  **abstract** .

komaeda shivers closer to hinata, nuzzling his face into his chest and exhaling slowly. the noise came out more like a whimper than a sigh. arms are wrapped around his waist but it’s still really cold, and he wants to reach out to close the window but he can’t.

(that may be because the curtains block the window and the window is already closed, but he feels like it symbolizes something more. like a butterfly yearning for freedom but freezing when they leave. it’s rather sad, but a window is a window and he is nothing today.)

it’s one of those days where he has limbs and a body and thoughts but he can’t shift enough to reach out and touch something, to touch the air to know that it’s real. he’s just lost, numb and hushed with this heavy sort of thing binding his entire body together. all he has around him is the warmth of the body beside him, brushing through his hair calmly as he checks his phone behind komaeda and shuts off the lights in response. it must be late, but komaeda doesn’t know. he can’t tell if it’s peaceful or depressing. he’s so sick of things being depressing, but he can’t move or really talk and there aren’t many ways to excuse that.

(he feels a kiss against his temple, warm lips lingering on his forehead. he wonders if this is pity.)

“it’s alright.” smoothing the covers that lay over them, hinata repeats, “it’s alright, komaeda. get some sleep. it’s alright.”

it’s absurd, really, how shockingly  **abstract** everything feels. it’s something from a comedy.

yet hinata doesn’t laugh.

komaeda doesn’t either.

* * *

Mukuro glared at the  **concrete** , her expression a despondent frown. The world was shit, and if she learned anything in her life, it was that you blamed shitty things on those that never got a chance to act. it’s pretty shitty that the sidewalk never cared about those who were killed on it, or cried over it, or were buried under it. She kicked the ground, not hard enough to hurt her foot, because she still had to get home after this. Rather, she had to help someone else get home.

She kicked the ground again.

She was leaning against a brick wall outside of a bar, fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. She wasn’t planning on getting high, nor was she intending to drink, but she could toy with the thoughts to pass time. Life went by quicker when you were busy torturing yourself with unhealthy coping mechanisms. Or maybe it went by slower. Mukuro wasn’t sure, but her phone was dying and there was no way in  _ hell  _ she was leaving the alley. Leaving the alley meant leaving her self-destructive sister in a bar with a bunch of fucking perverts, which meant that Mukuro couldn’t swoop in and save her. 

Mukuro always saved her sister. Even when Junko never did it back. Even when she shouldn’t have to save her sister, because usually it’s her sister’s fault and usually her sister hated her until it was convenient to switch gears. There was no reason for Mukuro to be her angel.

Angel. Mukuro scoffed, flipping the box of cigarettes as she rasped out a laugh. Yeah, right. 

The fuschia and yellow neon lights hurt Mukuro’s eyes. It was ridiculous that Junko kept wanting to come to this specific bar in the sketchiest part of town. She kept mentioning a hot barista that worked there. One that Mukuro had never met, and frankly never wanted to meet. Anybody Junko found hot was either getting manipulated or being a manipulator, or both. Sometimes the lines are blurry.

With Mukuro and Junko, things were never blurry. They were  **concrete** .

“Son of a  _ bitch _ ,” Mukuro muttered to herself angrily, kicking the wall across from her viciously. This time, she registered the nerves in her foot screaming in pain. Good. She was agitated, and she was depressed, and nobody fucking cared anyway. 

“Mukuro~” The ravenette sighed, turning on her heel and shooting a frustrated expression at Junko. The drunk girl wasn’t phased, not at all. “Time to go homeeeee~”

“Fine. Follow me.” Mukuro pulled Junko’s phone out of the girl’s pocket, ignoring her manic giggles as she called an Uber. The last song playing on Junko’s phone was a sexual song, which is great, because the only thing that could make today better was the fact that Mukuro’s sister probably got laid. Fucking fantastic. When the black car  _ finally  _ arrived, a quiet and tired man driving them to their street, leaving them to walk to the absurd house Junko inherited (not Mukuro, because Junko was the better twin), the defeated girl glared at the  **concrete** , letting her sister go ahead of her and twirl into their house.

If someone attacked Mukuro, the soldier wouldn’t have noticed.

She was still carrying the cigarettes.

* * *

you’re gone.

like the wind, you dissipate into nothingness (absolutely nothing) and you crave that feeling of being so much of nothing that you need someone else to fill you, some concept or belief to consume you, but everything is  **lost, ** just like you. 

you are them, obviously. one of them. any of them. none of them, because they don’t want you to be them. they don’t want to be anything. you don’t either.

they’re all the same, really. kids pretending like they know shit, can figure out shit, but they never knew shit. you know better than  _ anybody  _ that they don’t know shit. they’re teens,  _ kids _ , going through so much all at once. they don’t know anything. they’re  **lost** . 

you aren’t sure if you’re them. you feel kind of like a cocktail of hope and despair and something else when you stare at that screen, holding application papers in your decaying hands because twenty years ago you were there and now you’re  **lost ** and still unsure why you ever signed up.

you were the first. you are the last. you are something and nothing at all. a hollow shell. when tsumugi shirogane asks for a fucking press conference you sigh and that’s all you do, because you’re tired and you’re  **lost ** and you relate to every overpriced character on the overpriced screen. fear in kaede, altruism in rantaro, numbness in ryoma, pride in someone, sadness in someone else. who was the cast? you aren’t even sure ryoma has died yet. you forgot where you left off; it’s background noise while you pick up the pieces you left your house in.

they think they’re dying. you don’t care. you died a long time ago.

(you laugh at their choice of protagonist. shuichi saihara? a pitiful carbon copy of kyoko kirigiri. it’s hysterical. if kyoko hadn’t killed herself fourteen years ago, you’re sure she would have laughed too)

you write it down, because of course you do. hope's peak academy. despair. a boy with messy hair and a girl with all of her problems hidden in a blazer. you write it all down.

when you’re done, you stare at it for a bit before going back to sleep. dying is a pain in the ass; you’ve done it too many times.

you are makoto naegi. danganronpa is a show. it’s v3 season. they are nothing. you are nothing. you are  **lost. **

**Author's Note:**

> i have no creativity or inspiration to write. like i have ideas i just. can't. shout out to depression for just,,, tacking on a really bad writer's block.
> 
> anyways, i'm fairly proud of this. even though it's confusing. 
> 
> i don't know what to say. um, bye-onara


End file.
